Midnight Scouting
by IDespiseTragedy
Summary: Female!Poland found an old folklore book that mentioned a haunted house accessible only on half-moon midnight and decided to scout the house. The place turned out to be a timeless maze far more problematic than she had been prepared to face. Not only did she meet various ghosts from different centuries, but she also found Female!Lithuania there.
1. Chapter 1

Credit: Thank you so much my beta readers, _Kleon Luminia_ & _ChocoVanille_; also thanking_OrgyMemberXVII _for the wonderful suggestions

Disclaimer: If Hetalia were mine, Himaruya would be the one writing this fanfic XD

Warning: Not recommended for those who are uncomfortable reading feminine slash and ghostly apparition stories

Author's confession:

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. This story could do with the usual male Poland and Lithuania, but I switched their gender to satisfy my urge to write a shoujo-ai relationship with sexual innuendo.

Cultural note: Latin was the most popular language in the multinational Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania, especially during the seventeenth-century, so Poland can speak it fluently in this fic

* * *

**Midnight Scouting**

_"Only when the half-moon hath risen in the darkened, charcoal sky, wilt thou behold the ruins of a house in the forest-cloaked ground on the other side of this lake. 'Twas an abode so ancient that evil spirits had taken a liking to weave their evil schemes. No soul who had dared to enter it ever returned. O wanderer, remove thyself from its __circumambience__; beware of the peril that devil's nest mayeth bring!"_

"Yeah, right."

Sneering, Poland threw the book back onto the motley of objects at one corner of her attic. She inspected her surroundings with a satisfied look, and then stretched her arms upward. Now that nearly a third of the occupants of her attic had been gathered in one pile, the room seemed more spacious.

_'Will all these fit in my car trunk when I deliver them to the orphanage tomorrow?'_ Poland wondered. Then, another, worse realization dawned on her. _'Ugh, moving them all from the third floor to the garage will be a pain in the ass; they'll need, like, five up-and-down trips at least.'_

She heard her stomach rumbling and looked at her watch—Lithuania's gift the previous Christmas. Its shorter hand settled on number seven, while its longer hand was in-between three and four.

_'I know!' _Poland grinned at her "brilliant" idea. _'I'll drag—oops, invite—Liet._ _She can help me carry the heavy stuff. After that, we can share the three bottles of _krupnik_ I bought today. One of them has stronger cinnamon aroma; the second one, cardamom; and the third, orange. Hmm, __I wonder_ _which of those honey liqueurs she'll love best?' _With that, Poland hummed merrily while hopping down the stairs and heading toward the kitchen.

While waiting for the _zupa_ _szczawiowa_ to boil, Poland's thoughts returned to her best friend. Lately, she had so frequently made Lithuania spend their time together in her house and nowhere else. _'Time for a change of pace,'_ she thought as she gave the sorrel soup a stir. _'That rumored haunted house near Milicz will totally be a good place to start—which is why I'm going to check that out first.'_

After dinner, it took less than two hours' drive to reach Milicz, since Poland only made one stop at the gas station. The journey remained uneventful until Poland parked her silver Audi at the edge of the woodland that bordered Milicz. She took out a pair of waterproof boots from the trunk and replaced her shoes; since the region was rich with lakes, she expected most of its terrain to be miry.

Armed with a camera, a hockey stick, a bottle of water, a torch bicycle helmet, a spare torchlight, and batteries, she marched gallantly under the cloak of the night. There was a persistent stillness in the groves; never did the hoot of owls break the muteness. It gave her the feeling that the silence of the place had lain unstirred by mortal footfall ever since time immemorial.

After about twenty yards, she reckoned that the woodland through which she progressed was more a maze of bafflement and eeriness than a field of adventure. There were no landmarks, no shoeprints; while the distant hoots of the owls sounded as though they were warning her not to come any closer. Even the towering trees grew thicker and thicker as if the nature itself were marshaling them against her advance. The earth seemed unearthly with the rise of ground and the foliage cutting out the moonlight. The forest was seemingly vaster than when seen from outside, and was interwoven by the endless labyrinthine volumes of penumbral leaves.

A swishing noise slashed the sullen sky. Poland stepped back, heart beating fast, wondering into what dreadful place she was bringing herself. She listened intently, and then, upon perceiving that it was none other than a cloud of bats swarming amid the foliage, she exhaled in relief.

_'Just because you're here at night, that doesn't mean you should stop and cower every three minutes,'_ her inner voice reproached her. All the same, she couldn't help but feel relieved that the search amidst such a tenebrific forest did not last for more than a quarter of an hour. The building across the creek was within sight at last.

It was the charred ruins of a small two-story house, of which outlines were blurred by erstwhile cypresses and hedges of unkempt shrubs. Discounting its air of ageless neglect, there was something dismal about the rubble—something that inhered in the mantling tangle of unchecked ivy vines, in the furtive windows, and the twisted forms of the funereal vegetation. The walls of the great gray building were as silent as those of a sepulcher and there was no sign of human occupancy all around the crumbling debris. However, as though a stranger's voice had spoken to warn her, Poland had the most peculiar feeling that something had been lurking there, waiting to ambush visitors. A growing edginess dispersed in her mind; she could no longer distinguish the rustles of the leaves from the weaving whispers of maledict schemes.

Poland vigorously shook her head, trying to dismiss the ill-defined uneasiness that was poisoning her brain. She took a deep breath and pressed on, albeit with stiff strides. The wind hit her with a buffeting gust, making her coat snap like a flag and her hair tangle in quivers. Although her heart pounded louder and louder the closer she came to the abandoned house, she consoled herself with the thoughts of all the fun she would share with Lithuania. It would be good if she managed to scare her best friend and make that girl cling to her while screaming at the top of her lungs.

The shades of the night drew on, and the house came into view at last. Yet as Poland arrived at the edge of the murky creek that separated the house from her, she could not help but gulp. Under the wan light of the half-moon, she thought she saw vaguely moving things below the ripple-free surface that seemed to vanish once she squinted; there were submerged faces in the body of water that appeared and disappeared like livid bubbles before she could make out their features. And, peering across the creek, she wondered why she had not seen the shadow of that abandoned house in the stagnant waters. It was ashen gray and unperturbed, that it seemed to have stood for inestimable ages between the moribund creek and the equally moribund sky. It looked more antediluvian than time, coeval with the unknown depth of a lightless chasm.

Poland retracted a few steps back. _'I'm not afraid,'_ she told herself. _'I need to go around this creek since there's no boat anyway.'_

When she reached the opposite bank of the creek, an unknown heaviness fell upon her, dragging her pace as though a prisoner's ball and chains had shackled her ankle. The house was a few paces away, yet a minatory air dwelled upon its ground and crept unseen but palpable along its decrepit walls.

"_Vade retro!_" an unfamiliar female voice interdicted Poland, susurrous yet commanding.

Poland stopped dead in her track. That was Latin, all right. Most European nations knew Latin, or at least some of it, but certainly not to the extent that they would _think_ in that dead language. Whoever said that phrase was not her inner voice.

Even so, why did the unknown voice tell her to get back? Poland took a rather deep breath and retorted, "_Audaces fortuna iuvat_." Fortune favors the brave.

Poland entered the grounds and followed the untrodden path leading to the front door, but regretted her decision at once. There, as she stepped forward, a stealthy somberness had closed in upon the ruins and the sable sky darkened even more above her, as if it had been merely waiting for her to enter before it descended. The surrounding trees, like phantoms, grew fainter as they receded into the seemingly faraway background. The air was stiflingly oppressive, like a dingy vault that had been sealed for centuries.

Hesitation had filled her even before her hand poised at the door handle. She cast one rearward glance. The same eerie ground lay behind her. Never before had she stumbled upon a place so devoid of life. Still, paranoia was not a trait she would readily embrace. With a long sigh, she pushed the door open and the slab of wood swung inward with a pronounced creak of unoiled hinges.

Once inside, Poland found the temperature dropping from cold to arctic. Her breath formed plumes upon plumes of vapor in front of her, their ghostly whiteness blooming in stark contrast with the pitch-black hallway.

_'Sheesh, if it's already _this_ cold in October, how would it be like in January?'_

The despairing floor condemned her weight upon it, shrieking with every step she took. Although Poland switched on the torchlight of her bicycle helmet, the illumination the yellow beam afforded was lonesome and indistinct, while the thronging shadows of the hall were unexplainably multitudinous and constantly shifted with an eldritch disquiet. Hence, she placed a large rock to serve as a doorstop, hoping that the extra light from the waning moon, however dim, would brighten her way.

Poland found herself in a single straight corridor with four rooms leading off it, two to each side. The first room on her left was less than three yards away from the threshold. It was a room of which fusty shadows could never be wholly dissipated by her flashlight, its dead air cumbrous with the mustiness of years. Her feet creaked and crackled over the bare planking, and her outstretched hand touched a wall from which the paper was hanging in ribbons. The window was so thick with dust that she could not see the trees outside more than their silhouettes forming gloomy map-like pattern. The wall on the east side had a door adjoining to next room.

No less musty than its predecessor, this room was fairly large and lined with the furniture meant for a bedchamber—dresser, console table, desk, chairs, chaise longue, and even chamber pot which, albeit had their fair share of wear and tear, did not fail to exhibit the mastery of their makers' chisels, though, regrettably, did not match the architectural style of the edifice. Just then, the sound of the howling wind caused her to glance out of the window, through which small and deep-set panes of clinging mold she could see only the irrefrangible, pressing darkness that seemed to have swallowed the whole place.

But something else accompanied the scream of the wind. Her ears caught the sibilation of an ominous voice, ethereal and distant, like that of a spirit that rose from the grave. It was the same inexpressibly grim and nerve-sapping voice that had warned her to stay away from this place in its intimation of transcendental macabre.

"_Sero_" was the single Latin word that the voice—the same high-pitched child-like voice that had spoken to her earlier—announced. Too late.

Poland had no need to ask what she was late for. All too readily, she understood the nameless dread that had inspired the author of the book she had found in her attic. At the same time, her eyes found the object in the center of the room.

It morbidly resembled a casket in shape and size.

Why the house owner had kept a coffin inside the house Poland did not want to know. It was the time to kiss goodbye her old motto: "curiosity is stronger than fear." She sprinted back to the landing through which she had first come in, only to be perplexed by its transformation: the house seemed to have expanded to the size of a mansion. The supposedly eight-yard walk between the room and the door to the outer world now stretched into the fearsome length of a rugby field.

Poland's eyes bulged with dread as she saw the distant door. _Closed_ door. She did not even hear the sound of the door closing. No. It was not the same door. The one from earlier had no mullions in it.

_'How?'_

With every tremulous step, the exit did not feel to come nearer at all. The hallway was an endless loop of bafflement and ghostliness. She was trapped in a long, dark corridor where frosty air held its unremitting sway. With an ever-growing fear chilling her heart, she prayed, _'God, please let me out of here alive. I promise I'll go to church every Sunday instead of twice a year. And I'll never trouble Lietuva again; in fact, I'll be good to everyone I know.'_

Hearing the tread of feet further back in the time-forgotten house, Poland vowed to herself not to look back. One step. Two steps. She had the strangest feeling of being followed. Through her growing hebetude, she advanced, endeavoring to reach for the door that refused her approach. The ground beneath was soft like carpet, even though she was sure she had been striding on bare planks on her way in.

Then something long, cold, and quick brushed the side of her leg.

Poland squeaked and, without thinking, instinctively burst into the nearest room on her right.

The back of Poland's neck prickled. The very dust and quietude in this room seemed to tingle with some otherworldly aura. But most of all, sitting on an easy chair by the fireplace was a young woman arrayed in mid-seventeenth-century attire. Her "_mentliks_", worn over the one-piece pullover gown known as "_letnik_," was not lined with fur and even thin enough for summer; and yet, if the inclement temperature of the house affected her, she did not show it. On the contrary, Poland's teeth were chattering despite her winter coat. The woman, who glowed with preternatural phosphorescence, hummed an old tune with her attention chained to the piece of tablecloth she was crocheting. Although the easy chair steadily rocked to and fro, the woman's figure remained still, like a taper that burned for the dead in a windless crypt.

Poland's mind told her to scram, to flee, to leave that accursed place, but her feet refused to move. She stood immobile like one who was afflicted with palsy. Numbness was creeping through her like a contagion, spreading to each and every vein, freezing her body as she stood.

The apparition reached out for the basket of yarns on the small table next to her chair. The ball of yarn she was attempting to procure fell onto the floor and rolled towards the doorway, where Poland was standing. Again Poland willed her feet to move, and again she found her entire body petrified. But even as the diaphanous woman left the chair and bent to pick up the stray yarn, the hem of her gown hovered five inches above the ground. As soon as she retrieved the yarn, which had come into a halt near Poland's right foot, she looked up at the uninvited visitor.

For a moment, the two girls' stares met and Poland experienced a shiver through the marrow of her bones. It was sharp, electric shock-like sensation that left her momentarily stunned. A vision came into Poland's mind: the ghost would stab the crochet hook into her eye. She squeezed her eyes shut then, unable to make any more movement.

One second elapsed. Two, five, ten…

Poland reopened her eyes. Before her, there was nothing but an empty room; the apparition had vanished into the shadowy realm of the night. She wiped the cold sweat from her forehead, while her legs still shook beneath her. The breath she had unconsciously been holding in now burst forth from her lungs. She inhaled deeply several times, staring at the spot where the ghost had been moments before. Only her pounding heart testified that the evanescent entity had indeed existed. Long she stood there, half-expecting half-fearing to hear the cackle of the dead. However, there was nothing, not even the ruffling of a gown.

Collecting herself, Poland stumbled back through the door; her heart still beat ponderously and her hand shaking as she gripped the handle. _'Leave!' _a harsh whisper resounded in her head, but somehow she knew that the voice came from somewhere beyond the door she herself had just closed. _'Flee this place now!'_

Upon exiting the room, Poland perceived that the hallway now showed a different size and décor. The damask pattern of the wallpaper looked more crowded than its previous version and the paper peelings were at different spots. Her face coated in a sheen of cold sweat, she questioned herself, _'What exactly is this place?'_

Poland ran along the hallway in the frenzied hope of eventual escape as if she had been a thief pursued by police constables. Even so, regardless how many steps she had trodden, the front door kept distancing itself interminably from her.

After a short interval, she came again to where she had started. Again she turned and fled; and once more, after similar wanderings and like struggles, she came back to the inevitable starting point.

Poland felt like crying; how true it was the adage about how the value of a friend could only be discovered once she had been lost. All those times, Lithuania had always been there to comfort her. But now, she was on her own. Alone and scared and tired.

After so many repeats of the same fruitless circle, she resigned herself to her fate and made no further effort to leave. Not only were her feet sore, but her bones also felt as though they had been ingrained with lead. All hope of survival dispersed into hopelessness and all motivation to attempt escape benumbed, Poland sank on the floor of one of the rooms. That room was interspersed with innumerable volumes of books, which had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners or were stacked all round at the base of the cases. Even so, it had a funereal suggestion in its form.

She glimpsed at the window. Much to her horror, what had been an empty screen now delineated the silhouette of a man. The man, vested in a _delia_ from the late eighteenth-century, was scribbling onto a piece of parchment on a grand mahogany desk before the window. Only his tenuous back was clearly visible, and he occasionally dipped his quill into an inkbottle. Next to it, laid a sealing wax stick, a candle, and a _buława_—military ceremonial mace.

Poland knew she ought to scramble, to remove herself from his presence, but her feet were rooted to the ground. Her muscles refused to move yet again. Her heart thundered in her chest, while a ghastly chill prickled her skin. Fear was gnawing on her more unrelentingly than a dog on a bone. She prayed with all her heart that the man wouldn't turn around—or, worse still, turn his head into a full circle—and spook her.

He did not swerve, but without pausing from his writing, he spoke in Polish, though using the vernacular of three centuries earlier, "You should leave. The moment she finds you here, she'll have me kill you."

The fear-induced strength from the man's words spurred Poland's feet. As she scampered to the lengthy passageways of the hall again, she bumped onto a grandfather clock right outside the room, which had not been there before; the corridor had changed again.

"Ouch!"

Rubbing her dizzy head, Poland stepped back. Removing her fingers from her forehead, she perceived that they were wet with splotches of blood. She groaned in her mind: could this be any worse?

Blood still streaming from the side of her forehead, Poland glanced cautiously to the left and right; she searched while hoping at the same time not to find any more night prowlers. Heat came from one of the rooms further back and approached the welcoming warmth.

The heat originated from a busy kitchen. At one corner, there was a beehive oven into which a kitchen maid was shoving charcoals amid the tangle of firewood. At the center of the room stood a large table on which another was crushing some herbs with pestle and mortar, its fresh aroma wafting headily towards her. On the other side of the table, what seemed to be the head cook—the oldest woman in the room—was shaping the dough of _pierogi_ dumpling into circles using the rim of a cup. "Jadwiga, have you prepared the water?"

Her companion, who was returning dried pots to their shelves, glanced at the clock on the top shelf and answered, "In a minute."

The first one to notice Poland was another maid, who was sharpening a knife to a grinder on a smaller table nearby. She sniffed the air and apparently caught the scent of Poland's dripping blood. Without taking her glance off the intruder, the ghost quietly remarked, "We shall make a hearty _czernina_ today."

The other women stared at Poland all at once, causing her goosebumps to sprout. Did they have to look at her in that way right after announcing they were going to make the soup that conventionally consisted of poultry blood, herbs, and dried fruits? Given the absence of duck or other meat ingredients within sight, were they going to use her as the substitute for a duck?

Then the tallest of the kitchen maids squeaked, "She's here!"

Poland had caught a glimpse of panic in the five kitchen workers' faces before they disappeared into swirls of air, leaving the kitchen vacuous and cold. With them, the dough, broth, and all other ingredients vanished into ether. Even the oven fire died down. In an instant, the kitchen looked as if it had been relinquished for years, with cobwebs and accumulated dust.

Poland's eyebrows knitted. Something was not right. Those ghosts had no reason to be frightened of her. But she did not figure out what had terrified them so until she turned around and made her way back toward the door.

An eleven-year-old girl was standing on the doorway. Her skin was nearly as white as the nightgown covering her thin frame. Amid the curtain of her disheveled sable hair, peeked a pair of red, puffy eyes that could only belong to one who had been weeping for hours. With the first glimpse of the ghost, a sense of unknown melancholy pervaded Poland's spirit.

The little girl spoke,_ "Hortatus eram ne venias, sed monitum contemsisti."_

_"I urged you not to come here, but you disregarded_ _my warning,"_ Poland recognized the Latin what was more, this was the same high-pitched voice that had told her to turn back before she reached the haunted house.

_"Moriturus es,"_ the little girl continued with an immense grief in her tone. Her hands were outstretched, reaching for Poland with long nails and swollen fingers that never fumbled.

Poland instinctively swung her hockey stick; how could she stand still after said ghost announced that she was about to die and even reached out for her? Yet, even though she strongly suspected that the stick would go through the ghost rather than hit its body, a pang of guilt invaded her guts: a ghost her adversary might be, the dead one was still a child. She closed her eyes, unable to bear witnessing the assault.

The hockey stick felt as light as though it had hit empty air when it reached the child ghost's form. Opening her eyes, Poland faced the doorway leading to the obscurity of the hallway. The apparition was nowhere to be seen.

But Poland knew something else was here with her. Her heart beat so loud as to nearly deafen her. She felt that presence—the disquiet that made each individual hair stand up on the back of her neck. The darkness … something was lurking in that darkness. A pulsing hunger. A sense of rising predation that fueled the gelidity in the air. From behind, a malodorous perfume bred, no less overpowering than the stench of dead mice neglected for days.

Glancing over her shoulder, Poland saw with immense horror that the ghost had transmogrified. Purplish veins began to sprout upon her skin, which rippled and moved. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, evoking the feeling that being hurled into the unknown depth of an abyss would be a certainty Poland could not escape. The apparition's flesh solidified—no longer ethereal and transparent, but tangible enough to grasp and to hold. To hurt the living.

".אותך תמצא עדיין שלי הציפורניים ;שלי הקטן הכבש ,לברוח" _("Livroach, hacavesh hakatan sheli; hatzipornayim sheli adayin timtzah othach.")_

From her perfunctory knowledge on Hebrew, Poland recognized this to be a scorn: take flight, my little lamb; these claws of mine will find you still. Even so, the ghost's voice no longer belonged to an eleven-year-old girl; it sounded guttural and masculine like that of a toad's croak and a crow's caw combined.

Poland's tongue and lips refused to obey her attempt to shout. An icy paralysis appeared to have seized her organs of articulation and was blocking her throat. It was a blessing that she could still move her feet, and she dashed through the doorframe, out of the kitchen where evil was lurking. The ghost rose in a flurry of teeth and claws, cackling mockingly, and launched herself in Poland's pursue.

The hallway had altered itself again. Cressets were now burning along the extensive, narrow corridor, though she had not perceived the time and agency of their lighting. No paper wrapped the walls, and their crude masonry suggested that they were built as early as the thirteenth-century.

Poland ran headlong through the mysteriously lit corridor, crushing straw-littered floor with heedless feet and maddened ever by the fear. She dared not turn back, but she suspected the ghost glided behind her, pursuing her to no end, for she still sensed the same abominable presence wherever she went.

After another vain attempt to reach the front entrance, Poland took a random door on her right. It led to a spacious drawing room with elegantly upholstered chairs and spindly tables—a perfect spot for a leisurely break, except for the black-haired head that was now emerging from the wall. Gradually, the neck came out, too, and then the upper torso. Poland did not wait until the ghost's full body appeared. She rushed back to the corridor again and scurried up the narrow stairs.

The first room upstairs could not shelter Poland from her pursuer either. Within seconds after she burst through the door, the diabolical apparition cleaved through the wall as easily as shark on water. It seemed to her that she could not escape from that demonic spirit. In her haste, she stumbled over a stool, and the clangor only invited menacing cackle from her insidious chaser.

She fled from the ghastly chamber into the outer darkness of the corridor again. Yet, running was useless; the ghost kept chasing her like ineluctable shadow. But despite the repeat of the same horror, fright urged Poland to keep trying for another room. Her ill fortune remained unchanged until she tried the sixth time.

It was nothing like all the other rooms she had entered; the nauseating odor of freshly drawn blood hung in the air, so thick and haunting with singular persistency that it gave her the conviction she had stumbled upon the chamber of death. Poland found herself in the presence of a four-poster bed, a chamber pot, a cupboard of toys, a rocking pony, a dollhouse, a small dressing table, and a wardrobe. The brickwork was stained brown-black close to the ground, showing the remains of burning. Still, the room would have looked like a regular bedchamber for a young girl, had it not for the bloodstained broken chains and scribbles on the floor.

On the wooden planks was an arcane circle with seven-pointed star, each point bearing different unhallowed material: a grimoire, a bloody dagger, a goblet full of dark liquid, a bunch of plants, a goat's head, entrails, and a lock of human hair.

Poland cringed and headed to the door straightaway. Before her hand touched the handle, however, she began to identify scratching noises from the other side. They were no rat noise; they were such as would be made by the claws of a beast on solid woodwork, except that those scratches always came in threes—the mocking of the Holy Trinity: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. She stopped dead in her track, her brain and legs growing numb with a paralyzing dread. The monstrous, fiendish scratching grew louder and more frantic by the second, assaulting her ears as she stood there—the sting and burn of each impact running straight into her head.

A sudden conjecture grasped Poland: the ghost _could_ _not_ enter this particular room even though she had no trouble passing through the walls of the other rooms.

Poland glanced back at the arcane circle on the floor in the middle of the room. Perhaps this satanic litany had something to do with the room's immunity to the ghost. Repulsive and unnerving as it was, this was the best alternative she had by far.

Poland sat at an empty space on the floor, away from the door and from the demonic ritual circle. But though she remained idly there, terror reigned; it was around her like the meshes of a sable net, closing in mercilessly upon her anxious mind and drowning all reason within her. Horrendous thoughts besieged her as she tossed through endless minutes and sat hugging her knees staring at the somber furniture, which loomed like some baleful audience in the shades. The scratching on the door became even plainer, with a hideous, tearing vibrancy that plotted against her peace and muttered abominably of nameless things in demonian tongue.

Even so, God made no answer and showed no relenting, nor did He give any favoring sign when she implored in her timorous prayer.

Poland's stomach turned as she gazed upon vacancy for long hours. With an action that was becoming a habit in times of inquietude, she twisted a lock of her hair round and round in her fingers. Amidst the disheartening place and the turbid, timeless air, only despondence lingered. Dread was a serpent lurking in the disconsolations of her stomach only to wring her guts in its deadly coil in the absence of hope. Its venom poisoned her senses with something more unnerving than she could bear, unsuppressed and irredeemable.

How Poland wished she could go back to her usual flippant self! She had never been claustrophobic in the past, but now the room started to feel too narrow and cramped, with the walls threatening to close in upon her and the ceiling to press her down, like the sides and lid of a casket. She could never seem to draw a full breath, let alone get up to leave. A voice inside her head told her that she would bruise her head against an inexorable obstruction that seemed to be within inches above her. Even if her hands and feet had thrashed about in demented panic, her limbs would have met hard, unyielding barriers. All she could do was to stay there, shaking, alone with her stupendous fear and her even grislier apprehensions.

The persistent scratches on the door had served merely to intensify the charnel oppression within the room. The noise was muffled and far off at times; then it seemed to draw near, as if it were inches away from Poland. It took on a strange resonance; then it became almost inaudible; and suddenly, for a while, it ceased. In the interim, she heard a sinister laughter. Then the damnable clawing sound began once again and prolonged till the seeming lapse of nocturnal centuries.

After a stupendous stint of endless cark, Poland yielded to insanity, frantic thoughts milling in her brain like crowded maggots in a corpse. Old memories and present fears tangled in strange confusion, steeping with the same hellish blackness. She recalled, among many other things in that tumult of disconnected ideas, that she was yet to improve her reputation in the upcoming world cup, especially after Polish soccer hooligans clashed with Mexican navy cadets. England ridiculed her because the Polish ex-president made a fuss about the standard security check at the London Heathrow. And she herself laughed at the Polish exorcists for warning shoppers to be on their guard against the forces of darkness after a supermarket priced a packet of goats' cheese 6.66 złotys. Look at what those forces of darkness did to her now…

At length, sick with longing for a reprieve from the evil shadows of amorphous beings that prowled the haunted house, Poland tried to distract her mind with the workmanship of the rocking pony. Ponies had always been her obsession; when she was little, she used to own a few of rocking ponies herself, and in the recent years she even had a real one as a pet back home.

She approached the rocking pony and, as soon as she stood next to it, she trailed her fingers over its expanse, groaning in her mind, _'Who'd take care of my pony if I die here?' _She pressed the horse's saddle, and the toy began to sway back and forth; its functionality remained unimpaired although its paint had worn off and its parts were chipped through the scorn of years.

Poland stood there in silence, following the rocking pony with her gaze. Seconds upon dragging seconds passed by. The swinging of the toy horse did not stop. While the minutes waned and waned away, those to-and-fro movements of the rocker's curved course prolonged.

On and on and on…

Then for the first time, it came to Poland's notice that the vibrant rasping on the door had ceased. Her mind drugged with weariness and want of rest, she strained her ears and listened in a state of nightmarish apprehension: the transformation of the scratches on the wooden door into the creaks of the rocking horse against the floor had lasted for quite a while.

The mirror of the dressing table moved by itself. Poland held her breath. The oval mirror was adjusting its angle, its surface glinting when it caught the beam of her torch helmet. During that split second, Poland glimpsed a reflection in the mirror: the silhouette of a girl with long, black hair.

Poland's eyes widened in horror. A chill, not entirely unknown, rose out of the rocking pony and crested the very air of the room, spilling intimidation down into the shadowed recesses, chasing back what little remained of Poland's hopes for survival. In her asphyxiating fright, the bedroom became a scaffold—one tug from her executioner, and her neck would be tethered and her soul would fall into the netherworld recesses to be welcomed only by the gruesomeness of subterranean creatures.

She had to get out of here. _Now_. In her panic, Poland bolted for the door. But she came into a halt midway. The door knob was wriggling, struggling to be turned. A sinister laugh oozed into the room from the gap below the door. She swiveled. The rocking of the toy horse did not stop either. More than one pursuer wanted her dead.

Poland wheezed, trying to suck air. Catching a glimpse of the wall-mounted bric-a-brac shelf, she fumbled, searching for a push-button, a lever, anything that would open to a secret room of some sort. She even turned every object and tested whether any of them would result in the opening of a hidden door.

Finally, the rotating wall, which granted her the respite she sought for, was dubious enough to be regarded as a safe haven. The hidden room behind the haunted chamber was immersed in inviolate caliginosity—blackness pooled about it like a lake of tar, leaving it forlorn and marked as infrangible. From the dankness of the air, it seemed that the room was windowless. Despondency was perpetual. In here, the sense of time obliterated itself; there was only a melanite stagnation, in which eons and minutes were equally drowned.

At lengthy and regular intervals came a remote, muffled groan. Insufferable doubt and bewilderment awoke and brooded noxiously in Poland's terror-stricken mind. Her torch helmet did very little to lessen the pitch-black gloom. She extended her hockey stick forward, trying to prod whatever object that might hinder her in this lightless space. There was nothing there—no furniture, no amenities, no sign of occupancy; the soot black enclosure was empty. In the end, it was not the stick that encountered such an object; her right foot bumped onto something solid as she paced the room.

Heart plummeting, she looked down. Unless the dim light of her torch helmet was playing tricks on her eyes, the thing lying on the floor had a great resemblance to her best friend's figure. There was Lithuania's shoulder-length brown hair, for a start—even though the ailing light made it look mauve-colored. Then, there was that medium-build frame. But overriding all else was the handbag that lay next to the figure: it was the leather bag that Poland had bought for Lithuania's latest birthday.

"Liet?" falteringly, she called, her voice ending up a pitch higher.

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 2

Credits: Thank you so much my beta readers, _Kleon Luminia_ & _ChocoVanille_; also thanking _OrgyMemberXVII _& _Drew Astimal Vargas _for their wonderful suggestions

* * *

The figure rolled onto her side and met Poland's gaze. Lithuania was drawing rattling breaths that sounded both frail and agonizing.

"Are you all right?" Poland asked, brows knitting and a tinge of worry sunk in her voice. The other nation looked pale and dejected, stained with dust, and exhausted from hunger and fatigue. "Why are you here?"

Lithuania still did not answer. If anything, her expression seemed to have been stamped with incommensurable fear, way beyond her capacity to endure. It made Poland wonder what ordeals the poor girl had gone through in such a horrific place.

"Liet, don't be afraid; it's me, Poland."

Lithuania's eyes squinted, and, registering Poland's presence at last, she exhaled in relief. Then she feebly lifted her hand to point at the plastic bottle hanging from Poland's hip. "_Vanduo_…"

It was the Lithuanian word for "water," so Poland wasted no time to tip the bottle to Lithuania's mouth. She watched intently as her friend drank and read in the other nation's eyes a duplication of her own helpless bewilderment and feverish fear. But could this really be Lithuania instead of some trick the ghosts were playing in her mind? A sense of insuperable constraint, of smothering horror and hideous oppression, was upon Poland; and though she wanted to ask Lithuania lots of questions, she was unable to frame the words. She did not question her friend again until Lithuania had removed the bottle.

"Hey, drink up. You seriously look dehydrated."

Lithuania shook her head. "You'll need it later."

"Don't worry about me. I'm, like, totally not thirsty."

"Poland, you don't know when we can get out of this house—no, we don't know _if_ we can get out of this house. It could take hours or years or never."

"What's with this depression? It's unlike you. Come on, you endured so long under Russia; how can you get so disheartened over something like this?" As she spoke, Poland heard no confidence in her own voice. She could only hope that her expression did not betray her even further.

Lithuania affirmed, "You don't know the full terror of this place because you just got here. The batteries of your flashlights wouldn't even last for more than a day." She pointed at the ground near her right foot. "Like mine."

"How long have you been here?"

"I've already lost the track of time; my watch and cell phone have stopped working."

"Hang on, I've got a watch." Poland brought her wrist up and, for the first time, realized that her watch had been dysfunctional, too. It stopped at midnight—the exact moment she had stepped into the house. She fished out the cell phone in her pocket, but its digital clock also showed 00:00.

Poland's worry must have surfaced on her expression, for rather than asking for the time, Lithuania asked for the date.

"The date's October 22 when I arrived at the forest. But now that it's surely past midnight, it's already October 23."

"Then it was only yesterday when I got trapped in this place. The will containing the ownership of this property arrived in my postbox, so I decided to take a look at the place before putting its sale advertisement on a real estate agent. I initially thought it was a joke when it said that the house could only be accessed at half-moon midnight, but then, when I arrived here in the afternoon, the ground was empty. I returned shortly before midnight, and to my amazement, the house was there. Even then, it was still not too late to turn back. If only I listened to my heart!"

"Wait a minute, Liet; are you saying you haven't eaten anything since yesterday?"

Lithuania nodded.

"Here," Poland took out a chocolate bar from her pocket. "Sorry, but this is all I've got."

Lithuania mumbled her thanks and broke the chocolate into two; however, Poland gave her a warning look. "No don't give me the same reason about saving it for later use. You're totally starving. Eat up!"

Yet before Lithuania had finished eating, she started weeping. Although lack of light disallowed Poland to see Lithuania's tears, it did nothing to block her ears from hearing her friend's little sniffles.

Poland shifted closer until her side came into contact with Lithuania's. Putting her hand around the other nation's shoulder, she comforted her best friend, "Hush, Liet. You aren't alone. I'm here with you."

"I know," Lithuania sniffled again, "That's why I'm feeling guilty. You don't … you don't deserve to die." Another sniffle. "It's my fault! I shouldn't have wished you were here beside me when I was alone and afraid." With the rolling of the minutes, her sniffle grew into a wail. "And now you're stuck here to die with me."

"Hey, it's not your fault, like, totally. I came here to scout this house because I wanted to bring you here." A hitch of breath punctuated Lithuania's sob, and Poland went on, "Spending my last moments with you is the best thing that could ever happen to me … you're the best buddy I've got."

Lithuania suddenly squeezed Poland's hand. "I … uh, Poland, the thing is … I want you as more than just a friend. We may not survive this, but I don't want to regret that I've never told you I wanted to wear the veiled white gown and climb onto the bridal bed with you." Her squeeze tightened. "Back in the fourteenth century, you made it clear that our union is no more than a non-consummative political marriage. But as years go by, the more I'm with you, the more I desire you."

Lithuania took out a pack of tissue from her handbag and blew her nose. Poland made no attempt to break the brief muteness presiding over the two female nations until Lithuania turned to her again.

Scratching the back of her head, the blonde said, "Whoa, here I thought I was the only one with this huge craving for you. I mean, we're both girls and you had a thing for Belarus."

"Is that why I heard complaints about you strangling him quite often?"

Poland twiddled her fingers at Lithuania's question.

Lithuania asserted, "Look, Belarus might be good-looking, but I've gotten over that period of puppy love a long time ago—not that he has ever returned my feelings in the first place."

Averting her gaze from her best friend's, Poland said, "And then you went all chummy with America."

"But Poland, I'm no closer to America than you are to Veneziana."

"And Russia…" Poland argued in hesitation.

"Russia?! Seriously?"

"Well … she wants to dominate a lot of nations, all right, but she's so fixated on you."

Lithuania huffed. "You know perfectly well there's no affection between Russia and me—only reluctant subordination. On the contrary, random thoughts of you invade my mind regardless whether I'm in the middle of lunch, playing chess, or even about to go to bed."

"I was, like, totally afraid to freak you out. You see, I didn't want to lose you as a friend, so…"

As Poland's voice trailed off, Lithuania's head dived to meet Poland's in a kiss. Poland tilted her head so that Lithuania would not knock her helmet and she also switched the torchlight off for the comfort of Lithuania's eyes. Yet, when their lips barely touched, Lithuania retracted abruptly.

"What's wrong?"

"It … it's just that your lips are so soft, but mine chapped." It was apparent from the timber of Lithuania's voice that she regretted pulling back, especially after Poland's worried tone.

Without preamble, Poland surged her head forward once more and licked Lithuania's lips. As thoroughly as applying lip gloss, she laved the expanse of the sensitive flesh with her saliva. "All better?"

Lithuania's reply came in one breathless murmur, immediately followed by a hungry kiss. As much as Poland thought it was a pity that she could not see Lithuania's expression within the rayless place, her body could not deny that the feeling of Lithuania upon her made up for it.

They crushed their lips together, in a deep, invasive kiss with all passion and no care. Lithuania's esurient, hot tongue pried Poland's lips open and snaked in past her teeth, flooding her mouth with the aftertaste of chocolate. Lips against lips, tongues teasing each other, bodies pressed together. When Lithuania held her like this, Poland heard nothing but the rapid pulse of her own heart and felt nothing but the electrical charges throughout her body. This was what it meant to be alive. The macabre of the haunted house was worlds away. She was one with nature, and nothing mattered except for her and her beloved Lietuva.

Poland was not entirely sure when the transition happened—somewhere between Lithuania's arms wrapping tightly around her neck and Lithuania's breasts squeezing against her own—perhaps. Lithuania finally rubbed against her with her skirt flipped back; her pelvis ground against what she knew would be an embarrassing wetness beneath a thin layer of panties.

Poland's endeavor of pushing Lithuania's face away to allow herself to breathe met the response of a more powerful kiss nearly crushing her lungs, while Lithuania's cold, thin fingers closed round her waist. Her best friend did not just know what to do; she knew exactly how and when to push her to the limit. Lithuania's fingers drifted down the front fabric of Poland's shirt, rubbing over one nipple until it pebbled beneath the friction.

When two fingers pushed inside and slowly opened up the fold of her womanhood with a precise intent, something snapped. The curl of those fingers wrung little moans from her mouth. Lithuania twisted her wrist and that spark lit again, twisting through Poland's groin. The urge to come crested the edge of fervent anticipation and cascaded right into inescapable climax…

…until a skeleton—ashen-colored bones with hollow skull—was caressing her in Lithuania's stead.

An over-mastering fear obscured all lust within Poland. She instinctively pulled back from her partner, squeaking, her muscles contracting as she did.

"Poland, what's wrong?" Even Lithuania's concerned voice sounded distant to Poland's ears.

Poland had to take a few gulps of air before she managed to reply, "Sorry, some weird vision spooked my mind. It's just … this is neither the time nor place to do this."

In all honesty, a part of Poland wished that her best friend would not stop, that Lithuania would stifle her protests with obstinate, yet comforting kisses. Instead, Lithuania—the always too kind Lithuania—resigned herself to a soft, "I understand."

With a repressed sigh, Lithuania intoned, "This house is a timeless maze of infernal traps. Look at what I found lying in this very room."

Poland switched on her torchlight again. Its yellow beam—the brightless glow that leaked into the pitch blackness of the isolated room, too feeble to penetrate the lingering shadows—illuminated Lithuania's hand carrying a sheet of vellum ingrained with dust and torn at the edges. On it was slanted, tidy handwriting that said:

"_Day by day, __as __the symptoms she showed worsened, the torrent of bitter fear deepened within me and broadened the distance between __Zdzisława and I__. Yet, this morn, she veritably transformed into the paramount of abomination. Her head jerking up, she spoke with a voice that could not possibly have come from her throat, a voice stopped with earth, a voice that came from all the lost places. She spoke not to me, but to herself and only to herself, just as a lunatic talking in the thoroughfares. The muttering gradually started to rise in pitch, accompanied by growling gasps. And her language shifted from one to another—from German to Russian to Spanish to other languages I failed to recognize._

_O Lord, I rejoiced tremendously when this family decided to accept me as a nursemaid despite my lack of experience, but 'tis more than I can bear. Zdzisława used to be a sweet and sprightly girl who was enthusiastic with her studies, most particularly Latin. But now, the fragrance of flowers and the mellifluous song of birds are no longer appealing to her; instead, she takes pleasure in skewering a rat with a fire poker and pulling a spider's limbs off its body. _

_As if these new pastimes were not heinous enough, she pushed her little brother into the fireplace after breakfast. It was a grace of fortune that the butler entered the room immediately afterwards and came to young master's succor. He saw her holding Emeryk by both shoulders, but not once did the flame imperil her arms even though it seared her brother so mercilessly. The lad survived with many a wound, enough to turn his once cherubic visage into that of a hideous beast. How could gentle Zdzisława commit such atrocities? _

_When reproached by her parents, Zdzisława showed great remorse that dearest Emeryk was gravely injured and claimed that she had no memory of entering her brother's bedchamber, let alone holding him against the fire in such a horrid fashion. Nevertheless, for precautions, her father summoned a priest._

_The priest died at noontide. I wist not how, since I was told to wait outside. Somehow, she—no, the abhorrent thing inside her—managed to torture and kill the man whilst her body was still chained to the bed. Screams assailed my ears; those were wounded, primal yelps that tore themselves from his lungs with guttural rawness. The priest's cries sounded like death throes of a convicted felon who was thrown into a beast cage to spend his final minutes there. Nonetheless, the supposedly unlocked door could not be opened until much, much later. _

_When __Zdzisława's __parents and I stepped inside, the room reeked of both fresh blood and decay. To our dismay, what remained of the pious priest's entrails had been scattered on the floor. My mistress fainted at once, whilst master arranged the summoning of other exorcists without delay. How many more innocent lives must be sacrificed to exorcize that demon?"_

"Demonic possession?" Poland raised an eyebrow. "Hey, Liet, before you hid yourself in this room, did you meet the ghost of a little girl?"

"Yes, and she seemed possessed. I mean, she warned me to get out of here at first, but then she just changed—her behavior, her appearance, even the aura about her…"

"I know, right? But don't demons usually go for living targets? What's the point of possessing the dead?"

At this, Lithuania handed Poland a second sheet of vellum. It was made of the same material as the first, but its lower half had been consumed by fire. The words inscribed on it had been written by the same hand, but shakier this time.

"_Following so many a failure, not two or three, but seven exorcists came today. They drew a curious ritual circle on the floor and put all sorts of heinous objects along the seven points of its star. One of them said that a demon of such prowess would need to be appeased before it could be expelled from the host's body. I was dubious of this notion, but I suppose these priests were far more knowledgeable about the creatures of the dark than I could ever be._

_During the litany, a tempest broke out. A whirlwind collected its force in this vicinity and lightning struck everything that came near this house. I strongly suspect that the ritual went awry. The house went silent save for the sound of thunder outside and a faint scratching against the wall. When I stared at the slit of light that shone from beneath the door of __Zdzisława's __bedchamber, I descried shadows dancing outside __that __chamber. _

_The twelve exorcists perished_ _as well, but before their last breath expired, they managed to bind the demon to the little girl's doll. Never again shall that infernal creature be able to possess another unless—"_

At this point, Poland's gaze met the burnt edge of the vellum.

"Do you think the demon made the little girl kill everyone else in the house before killing herself, and then he has used her ghost to murder the people who bought this property next? The other ghosts I met came from different eras, but they all were so frightened of her."

Before Poland could answer Lithuania's question, she felt a strange lick of icy air past her side, along with an even more officiously noisome odor than the one she had smelled in the kitchen. The next second, her eyes widened in their sockets as a fistful of Lithuania's hair tilted as if held by a hand she could not see.

"Why are you suddenly freaking out?" Lithuania asked.

Too appalled to speak, Poland grabbed her best friend's wrist, intending to drag her away. But something was stalling them. Lithuania felt heavy. Something was anchoring her to the floor.

Poland turned back. Behind Lithuania's shoulder, the child's ghost was grinning, flashing two rows of sharp, yellow teeth. Her pupils were no longer round, but had narrowed into vertical slits like the eyes of a snake. More purplish veins were etched across her face. And her skin—if that membranous thing indeed could still be called "skin"—did not resemble human's skin at all.

Poland's lips parted in a scream, but before any sound came out of her, Lithuania beat her into it, shrieking frantically, "Something's pulling me! Poland, help!"

Springing forth, Poland rushed to catch Lithuania, but an unseen force hoisted her friend from her.

Poland's scream never left her mouth; mute and helpless, she was forced to witness her best friend being yanked backwards into the dark. Lithuania's figure vanished unnaturally fast. Poland's fingers had been only an inch away from the edge of Lithuania's boot before she bumped onto a solid surface.

A hand reached back for the blonde.

Fresh panic coursing through her, Poland leaped backward in shock. Then she pressed forward once more to swat the hand with her hockey stick. She saw the hand swatted back a similar hockey stick at her before a stentorian crash echoed in the room and fragments of glass flew freely onto the floor. It was only her own reflection in a large mirror.

Poland's heart was still pounding clamorously in her chest when the same suffocating presence came back, constricting the air about her with the fetor far more overwhelming than that of a fish market. Along with it, came a movement too swift to be discerned. The next thing she knew, the little light remaining in the room, which came from her torch helmet, was snuffed. She was left in tenebrosity so complete that she could feel her skin prickling.

She was _not_ alone.

Then a swishing sound rose out of the silence, low and pervasive, and a cold draft rustled through her. The blackness coalesced, coming together to form a thing of substance where a moment earlier there had been nothing: a shadow-like figure began to take shape, terrible and tall. An insidious chill crept through Poland as she realized that the evil power had been there all along, there in the obscurity, skulking for the right moment to scupper.

The pall-like shadow reached out for her; she felt a hand on top of her scalp, ruffling her hair and then brushing down her jawline, giving her goosebumps. There was a tiny flick, and the next second, the light from Poland's torch helmet was gone. As much as she wanted to switch it on again, she found that she could not move. Her entire body cramped and her muscles burned. It was as if steel fetters had fastened themselves around her extremities. She would die without even being able to lift a finger to save Lithuania and herself.

When the shadow breathed into her ear, the ill-scented odor akin to the bitter almond typically pertaining to vomit filled her nostrils again, this time overpowering her to the point she thought she would suffocate. She knew if she could not breathe fresh air, her lungs would not survive this ghoulish scent. She gasped for breath, clawing vainly at the empty air.

Then its voice—the same gutturally masculine one that she had heard in the kitchen—spoke in a dreadful, beguiling hiss, each syllabification pounding in her ears and then faded, just as the turning-up-and-down of the radio volume.

"_._אליי לעצמך תן" _("Tain atzmuch aylai.")_ ["Give yourself to me."]

"Or what?" Poland managed to rejoin. She did not bother to translate her answer into Hebrew. If this were truly a demon she was dealing with, the fiendish creature would master all languages. Besides, it was difficult enough to syllabify, and her utterance sounded strangely like a choked breath.

Her hunch was right: the demon retorted in flawless Polish, "Or it will be your friend whom I shall possess."

The towering shade pointed at the mirror, an echo of his cabbalistic cackle ringing in Poland's ears. "This is just a fraction of things I can do to her."

On the unbroken portion of the mirror, a reflection appeared. At first, Poland saw tiny flames on a circle encompassing hundreds of white candles. As she squinted, she noticed that no flame was the same: some were still as though they had been very realistic sculptures, while others were guttering as though they had been buffeted by the wind. Tremendous blood-red lianas then came down from the ceiling. Like gigantic tentacles, they squiggled and writhed as they descended at the center of the circle, and in their midst itself was the very figure of her best friend.

Stones of dread settled in Poland's guts. She clenched her teeth, holding the revulsion sternly down. As if hagridden by an inescapable, endless nightmare, she stared in disbelief. Lithuania was grappling with eel-like lianas, her clothes in tatters from the horrid creature's assault. Long, relentless plants writhed out of the shadows to one side of her like the business end of a lash, thwacking solidly against her midriff and the side of her head and then snaking around her.

First, those redoubtable creatures held her mouth, then her four limbs. One of them slapped against the girl's right hip and slipped around it, pulsing and coiling. The others were preventing her from twisting out of their relentless grip. To whichever direction she struggled, they followed, just as nameless larvae that were sightless and soundless, but possessed a singular desire for food. Over her shoulders, more lianas were coming. A forest of them.

Despite not being the squeamish type, Lithuania could not restrain the shriek that punctured its way out of her lungs. It was then did something snap within Poland.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Poland hollered.

The monstrous liana pierced through Lithuania's flesh. Her head jerked to one side with an unadulterated expression of abject terror. Along with her anguished yelps, her body gave out a spasm. The white candles were smeared carmine with blood splatters and the floor was decorated with ill-patterned splotches. Three more lianas plunged themselves into the fold of Lithuania's womanhood. Poland squeezed her eyes close and wished it all away; however, when she opened them again, nothing had changed, except that the entrails now began to drip down onto the floor. Dabbled in blood, the lumps of Lithuania's ruined bowel seemed to be crushable with a single stomp.

Poland knew it was too late, but her intention for rescuing Lithuania superseded all else. With a leaden sinking of her heart, as into some ultimate slough of despair, she pleaded, her voice sounding like a final gasp rattling inside her ribcage before it was indefinitely expelled, "Release my friend! Take me!"

The remaining part of the mirror shattered. With the removal of this barrier, came Lithuania's real figure. Poland shrilled. She ought to feel relieved that the previous scene was a mere illusion to beguile her mind, yet it did not change the fact that Lithuania was not safe still.

Although her best friend's clothes were still intact and neither blood nor liana slime stained her body, Lithuania herself was floating in mid-air. She was not screaming; she was beyond that. Her head whipped back and forth in an endless gesture of negation, and her brown hair flew wildly. Her face showed the ghastly pallor of chalky white and her frightened eyes brimmed with tears. Her arms and legs struggled in vain six feet from the ground as an invisible force suspended her. On the wall, the shadow of a gigantic claw encircled itself around her waist.

No candle or torch lit the room, and for a while, Poland had no clue how she could see Lithuania. But then something told her that what she discerned was not the work of her eyes, but rather, her feeling. Inexplicably, subliminally, she knew. She could sense what was happening without knowing how.

The shade loomed over Poland, eying her with a peer so feral and immersing her lungs with an overpowering stench. Their bodies were connected through ectoplasmic cords. As the shade's odious fingers squeezed the tender flesh of Poland's neck, trepidation snicked into her skin. Along the line where the fiend touched her, ice ate its way inwards from her pores to her core. A breath of freezing air spread between her shoulder blades, as if a path had been opened for frost to spill down into her body. She could not resist it. All that was required was her willingness to surrender. To die.

As Poland slipped into blankness, the last thing she saw was that abhorrent face convulsed with shrill laughter and something quite unspeakable when the shadowy figure had become disarranged with the shakings of epileptic mirth.

But then light emerged, spreading from the corners until only the center of the room remained a murky gray. Still bedazzled and confounded, Poland looked around. Neither the shadowy figure nor Lithuania was within sight. With the darkness dulling out, she no longer smelled the putridity in the air. The tremors of her night-long fright partially receded, but without bringing the surcease of incertitude.

After a hideous lapse into utter helplessness, she realized that there was nothing—nothing but the stilled clamor of her own imprisoned heart. It was a state of dead, empty quiescence. Chill and muteness were her only companions within the four walls of the vacuous room. The suffocating presence she had encountered seconds ago was no longer there.

"Liet?" she called, her voice characterized by a tremulous quaver of extreme terror.

No reply.

"LIET!"

The vacuous air swallowed Poland's shout whole.

Had Lithuania truly died? Poland could not be sure of it. Nothing was certain, bar the gripping fear that chewed on her insides.

In Poland's mind, she found herself in Lithuania's house. The weight of the solid wood door caused an unusually sharp, grating sound, as it moved upon its hinges and opened the otherwise silent living room. In the absence of its owner, the property gave out the sense of a hollow cavern, reverberating Poland's every footfall. Everything looked exactly as the last time she had seen it—tidily stacked magazines, remote controls on the settee, a chessboard on the low coffee table, and some bric-a-brac on the shelves.

Among these was a cup they crafted together in a pottery class. It was still left unpainted because it had not been fully dried on that last session. Poland had not been able to make up her mind whether she would paint a pony or a unicorn. Lithuania had said that she would not mind with either as long as she got to pick the color palette.

Now the piece of their collaboration could never be finished.

No more sleepovers and pillow battles. No more choosing shoes together. No more sharing earpieces from the same iPod. Lithuania could never again be by her side. Fat splotches of tears dribbled down Poland's chin. After centuries of friendship, was this how they were going to end?

Biting her lip, Poland prayed, _'God, please, don't let Liet die. Please…'_

Poland exited the secret chamber, back into the bedroom with the haunted rocking pony. It was as somber as before, but it was in vain that she tried to switch her torchlight helmet on, for it had been broken. She reached out for the spare flashlight hanging from her belt.

Much to her relief, both the pony and the mirror over the dressing table were still. However, around the perimeter of the arcane circle now stood the ghosts of twelve bearded men in black vestments with little black Tefillin boxes attached by means of leather strings. The ritual circle itself no longer assumed the shape of a heptagram, but that of a hexagram—the powerful shield known as the Star of David—and each of its points was unencumbered by any cursed object.

None of these men was free from mutilation; one of them even had his eyes gouged. It aggrieved her to perceive what used to be her citizens had been tortured and that she was powerless to help them. She flinched before she could control herself, her feelings for a moment in too great a turmoil to allow her to do anything else. Be that as it may, for some bizarre reason, their presence did not feel jeopardizing. The rabbis' mouths opened and closed, chanting in murmurs. So absorbed in the prayer were these rabbis that Poland did not think her arrival would halt their activity.

Contrarily, the incantation stopped not half a minute later. The rabbis unshrouded the Tallit cloth, revealing the little round Kippot in the middle of their heads. One of them, fingers missing, addressed her in the nineteenth-century vernacular Polish, solemn and supernal, "Motherland, we came to your aid as soon as we learned about the demon's reappearance in this room. He normally stayed away from here because this was the very room he was recurrently exorcized. The place weakens his power."

Poland swallowed. Living humans could not recognize what she truly was, but spirits knew how to distinguish a country from ordinary mortals. "Your prayer … so, it's your prayer that prevented the demon from taking me over." She knew she should be thankful to them, but the words of gratitude at the tip of her tongue refused to make themselves heard. The desperation within her was magnified tenfold, and when her lips parted, what came out was a throaty lament, "But Lietuva…"

"Cast your worry aside, for the demon cannot possess your companion as long as she wears her necklace. Its pendant was a crucifix blessed by what your kind call Pope while she paid homage to Vatican centuries ago—the holiness of such an object repels the demon."

Poland exhaled in relief.

A rabbi with gray hair and an arm bending all wrong said, "Even so, Lithuania cannot survive forever if we do not send the demon back to Gehenna, and for that, we require your help."

Poland nodded. "Tell me what I can do."

It was a different rabbi, one with missing front teeth and a large hole on his chest, who replied, "Bring the doll in which we entrapped a part of his soul into the center of this arcane circle and then break it. Only then shall we be able to continue our unfinished rite."

Poland recalled the handwriting on the second vellum that Lithuania had shown her: "_The twelve exorcists perished, but before their last breath expired, they managed to bind the demon to the little girl's doll. Never again could that infernal creature possess another unless—" _With a quirked brow, she queried, "You attempted to entrap the demon's soul in a doll? Why?"

Another rabbi answered her, "Because at that time, we still tried our best to save Zdzisława's life and the demon is too strong to be expelled directly; he had extinguished the lives of several exorcists before we were summoned into this house. We managed to bind him under the following condition: he would continue to live inside the girl's play doll until a thousand souls take its place as the hosts. Unfortunately, the demon had killed us before we could finish the ceremony. Only a part of his soul was tied to that doll; the rest still clung to a little girl by name of Zdzisława, who once inhabited this house."

"Is that why Zdzisława's ghost still possessed? But why couldn't the demon make her immortal instead of letting her die and turn into a ghost?" Poland inquired.

"By order of Zdzisława's father, other exorcists managed to entrap the child in a ritual circle, which debilitated the demon. Therein they burned her alive. Since the demon is still bound by the condition that he could not abandon the girl's play doll unless a thousand souls take its place as the hosts, he could neither protect the shell of his host's body nor leave it. Zdzisława's parents buried her in a churchyard, which is believed to be a hallowed ground. And yet, the demon returned to exact his vengeance. Zdzisława's parents, siblings, and household retainers all fell within a single night."

A rabbi, whose beard was bushier than the rest, added importunately, "We thought it would be remotely possible that so many souls would be available at his disposal. We would never have predicted that the demon lured a neighboring country as well as our own motherland to this accursed place. The soul of a country represents the number of its inhabitants, which means yours is equal to millions—more than enough to fulfill the condition."

'_Lure?'_ Poland thought, _'Liet received the will for this property and I had a sudden urge to clean the attic … are all these parts of the demon's scheme?'_

A chill shuddered up through Poland's entire body, cresting at the nape of her neck and making the hairs there stiffen. She had no recollection of ever purchasing the folklore book containing the information about the haunted house, but then there were plenty of other objects in her house that she did not remember buying, so she did not think this one was out of the ordinary. Close to shivering, she distracted her mind with another question, "I don't understand how the act of destroying the doll will obliterate Andras. Isn't only a part of him resides there, while the rest of his soul wreaks havoc freely? Even the time maze and the changing interior of the house are his works, aren't they?"

"Yes, he does everything within his capacity to seal anyone's egress into this place for the sake of replenishment himself. As long as he lives, any door and window within this house would not admit your exit. Nonetheless, know this: the doll's destruction is merely the requisite for the exorcism. As soon as the fiendish soul entrapped within the doll is liberated, the other part of the demon, which currently resides within Zdzisława, will join it, and then endeavor to take over your body. Before such plan crystallizes into action, we shall continue our unfinished ritual to exorcize him."

"Which of those dolls is the one you need?" She pointed at the toy cupboard.

"We hid the doll in a safer place," a rabbi, who had a beard the color of rust and deep gashes crisscrossing his face, responded, "Allow me to show you."

With that, the ghost of the rabbi led Poland out of Zdzisława's bedroom. As expected, the corridor's décor was nothing like its previous state. Now it was decorated with parquetry dating back to the nineteenth-century. Inasmuch as Poland wished to be able to ignore its vagaries, the ornate mirrors lining along the hallway walls instilled her mind with further insecurity: each of them reflected her figure but absent of the rabbi ghost's. The cobwebs on the ceiling observed her in silence, as though calculating for the right moment to tangle their unbreakable nets upon her and feed her wrapped body to some gargantuan spider.

In attempt to dispel the awkwardness between them, Poland started a conversation with the rabbi, "The wounds on your body and your companions' … did the demon inflict them?"

"Yes, we tried to persist during the exorcism, but his powers were beyond ours."

Poland wiped down her cold sweat as she pressed forward down the long hall. Her ghostly guide did not stop until they dimly saw the murky fanlight over the door leading to a balcony. There, the redhead rabbi turned sharply to the right and recited a short incantation.

At his syllabification, a portion of the wall sank inward to form a rectangular niche the size of a door. _"!_פתח" _("Potayakh!")_ the rabbi intoned, and the newly-formed door opened at his command.

Poland felt that she breathed an atmosphere of stern and absolute grief as her eyes found the figure of the ghost who stood behind the door. The ghost seemed like a boy toward the end of his teenage years, but his face was charred as if by the torment of infernal flames, his hair was gray as ashes, and his eyes were expiring embers. Even his clothing was leaden-hued enough to resemble the spoils of ghoulish rags. His hands were held in front of his chest, clutching a heavily-chained rag doll. Even so, something within Poland told her that notwithstanding this appearance, this apparition was innocuous.

The boy addressed Poland in a voice that had taken on the desiccation of the desert wind with its desolate quavers, "Long have I waited for a savior to come and defeat the demon."

Poland gulped. "Look, I don't have any special power. I'm gonna need all the luck I could get just to survive. There's no way I can lay a hand on that demon."

"The very demon you spoke of is Andras, a great marquis of hell who governs thirty legions. He is author of discords who teaches those whom he favors to kill their enemies, masters and servants. Even so, take heart. All the exorcists who endeavored to defeat him made the same mistake: they declared their opposition individually. But now, as ghosts, we are united and we shall help you to cast Andras back to the Pandemonium where he belongs," the boy replied, unfazed by her confession.

At a loss for words, Poland gave him an exasperated look.

The darkening of his eyes eloquent of mortal sorrow, the boy spoke again as he handed Poland the rag doll, "I was a shaman who in vain attempted an exorcism on Zdzisł life and spirit have I guarded the doll containing a part of Andras' soul for centuries. Henceforth, I entrust it to your keeping. Destroy it so that the fiendish creature can no longer imperil others."

Even at first glance, anyone could tell there was something unnatural about the doll. Although the chains coiling around it were covered with rust as well as thick layers of gathered dirt across the years, the doll remained spotless, as though an invisible dustproof film had coated it. Its black, beady eyes glinted malevolently, beckoning every beholder into the vortex of Tartarean gloom.

Poland did not welcome the prospect of touching the rag doll, for her instinct told her that it had more of jeopardy in store than her eyes could tell. There settled down upon her, was a ghastliness which no explanations could suffice. She wanted to let it go, no, she wanted to remove herself as quickly as possible from that eerie thing. But, at last, her fingers reached for the doll and she held it tightly in her grasp.

A flash appeared without warning, and for a split second, Poland's mind went blank. When she regained her senses, her body was not her own: she was the doll, but at the same time, she knew this was her. Before her, the boy was chanting rapidly in the dialect of the Polska Roma—not as a ghost, but as a living human. His skin was still unburned, whilst his attire clearly defined the middle-class fashion of 1960's. He stood in the middle of the arcane circle in Zdzisława's bedroom. And yet, something looked different: rather than a heptagram of blood, it was now a pentagram of salt, and the grisly objects—from the entrails to the grimoire—were all gone.

She—the doll—disdained that shaman and his pesky incantations. She detested him with the burning passion of hellfire. She would do anything to make him suffer. So, she cursed the loathsome creature, and the next thing she knew, the young shaman emitted a piteous shriek. Fire set his figure ablaze, licking his garments and scorching his skin. In his anguish, he broke the incantation, and this was the moment she had been aiming for: she escaped from the doll that imprisoned her.

"No, thou shalt not!" the young shaman bellowed. He resumed chanting, and chains snapped from Zdzisława'sbed, only to coil themselves throughout the doll's body.

With one last curse, Poland watched life expiring from the young shaman as she herself was drawn back into the doll.

"Motherland, are you well?" The ghost's melancholic voice pulled Poland back to reality. Together with it, came a frosty touch on her forehead, where his finger contacted her skin.

Poland shivered. She sensed darkness farther than she could peer within the doll in her hands, and she had to take a sharp intake of breath before replying with a terse "yes."

Retracting his finger, the shaman ghost said, "You have seen how easily Andras manipulated mind. Even if you manage to leave this place unscathed, he would lure others and continued his slaughter. None of the people who bought this house decades after Zdzisława'sdeath or even just came for a brief sojourn ever survived. First, he made her fatherpick up an ax and behead the rest of her family members and the household retainers, before killing himself. The family who dwelled here next underwent various methods of suicide, from hanging to drowning. Stabbing, strangulation, burning, defenestration, poisoning—owing to the _persuasion_ of Zdzisława's ghost, such tragedies were repeated over and over, until the last visitor burned this house in 1999. Still, Andras' thirst for blood would not be appeased. Will you let him endanger our posterity?"

Poland clenched her fists, resolution blazing in her almond-shaped eyes. It was time to put aside selfishness and prioritize the safety of her citizens. "I _will_ send that demon back to hell or die trying."

The shaman boy nodded, and the whorl of chains wrapping the rag doll crumbled into dust. Poland's eyes widened in befuddlement, but before she could ask for an explanation, the shaman said, "My deepest gratitude for you, motherland. With this, my duty is fulfilled and I can go to the next realm."

After thanking her, the phantasm of the shaman flapped his silent way to the west and disappeared through a wall. Poland watched him go with wavering breath, the fingers of her one hand clutching the doll, while the other continuing to grip the flashlight. The door shut behind her with the finality of a casket lid. Together with the ghost of the red-haired rabbi, she traced her steps back to Zdzisława's bedroom and, for once, the hallway did not change.

Opening the bedroom door, Poland no longer smelled blood in the air. The herbaceous scent of burned roots greeted her in its stead. Rather than mere eleven rabbis, she discovered over two dozen exorcists from varying religious sects, including a Muslim imam, whom she recognized from his _taqiyah_ prayer cap; a Hindu pundit carrying a bowl of flowery offerings; and three Buddhist monks in their saffron _kā__ṣ__āya _robes. They had been waiting for her around the Pentacle of Solomon fortified by a circle of salt, upon which center, perched a multi-wicked _havdalah_ candle.

Poland stepped into the center of the ritual circle. She imagined that the exorcism ritual would be a discordance of overlapping multilingual syllables, somewhere along the lines of "_Exorcizamus te_," "_Allāhu akbar_," "_Om Jaya Jagadeesha harey Swaami_,""_Namo amitofo_," and "_Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam_." However, as she ripped the doll's fabric, only silence accompanied her—the ghosts recited their prayer in their hearts instead of saying it aloud.

'_How nice it is to see those religious believers set aside their differences and collaborate toward a common goal,' _Poland told herself inwardly as she ripped the doll in her hand. Distinctive shredding sounds perforated the air like the shrieks of a tortured little girl.

In lieu of cotton stuffing, the rent rag doll revealed a smaller figurine made of porcelain inside her. The details on her facial features made her worthy as a collector's treasured item: the naturally-rouged cheeks, the exquisite lines of her lips, and even the flexibility of her eyelashes. It had a smooth finish to it and springy golden hair embellished with ribbons. The laces that adorned her gown were probably unaffordable by a common laborer's monthly wage in the eighteenth-century.

'_Take me home,'_ Poland heard the silent beauty beg in her mind.

A sliver of hesitation infiltrated Poland's being, seeping in through the tip of her fingers.

'_How can a little doll do you harm?'_ A voice, sweet and innocent-sounding, rang from within her.

Poland jerked, feeling as though blood had been drained from her body system. Seeking for an ideal height to break the doll, she lifted it overhead. Even then, she still heard, _'What are you getting afraid for?'_

She smashed the beguilingly harmless doll onto the ground nevertheless.

Black vapor emanated from the porcelain fragments, coloring the room with dark miasma. Poland flinched as she watched the amorphous black vapor taking shape. It appeared to have the body of an angel and the head of a wood owl, and to be riding a black wolf. The demon's head snapped up, eyes narrowing into vertical slits like the eyes of a snake and mouth grinning in unholy anticipation. "I triumphed over all of you once; hence, there is no reason why I cannot conquer you again."

Even as the exorcists continued their silent prayers, Poland felt her skin rippling.

Andras dismounted from the wolf and set his pet to rip the nearest exorcist's throat. The black wolf leaped, fangs bared and claws prepared, but stopped just a few inches away from the exorcist's chin. The wolf growled in annoyance, but no matter how hard he struggled, his feet were incapable of striding forward. His master unsheathed the saber from its scabbard and stepped forward. Yet, the mighty Andras, too, could not advance.

Glancing upwards at the ceiling, Andras cursed, _"!_בגיהינום ישרוף" _[Yisrofe b'Gehennam!] _

Wondering what made the demon swear, "Burn in hell," Poland looked up. To her amazement, the ceiling now encompassed a plurality of arcane circles—some from the Key of Solomon, many others she did not recognize—yet none was inscribed with chalk, paint, or any sort of ink known on earth; they were multi-colored ectoplasms strewn together, glimmering in the dark like graffiti of lights.

The ghosts intensified their prayer. A shrieking sound punctured the air, modulating through slurred discords and ascending from skirling bass to screeching treble. Burst after burst of raw screech hacked into a disturbing pattern that marred the night with its sacrilege.

The wolf went down first. Paws shred into black specks, he rapidly paced the floorboard to and fro, frantic in his attempt to escape whatever invisible power that began to devour him, but hindered by the barrier of the arcane circles on the ceiling. Next, his legs followed. Then his body. When only the upper part of his head remained, his eyes looked at his master imploringly.

Yet, Andras did not fare any better. body was shred into black specks that Slowly, but steadily, his figure started to dissipate into the air, as well. He made an ultimate attempt to bring down as many souls as he could carry with him back to hell, causing some of the exorcists let out piteous cries.

The room transgressed into a state of turbulence. The paraphernalia shelves rattled; their contents were elevated—first, lighter dolls, then heavier boxes, then the shelves themselves. The dressing table, the wardrobe, and even the four-poster bed all defied the earth's gravity next. A consternation filled Poland as she watched the furniture flying. The dark and tattered draperies, which, tormented into motion by the breath of the indoor tempest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls.

Poland grew lightheaded with an awful vertigo as she bent above the swirling and milling of the terrible gulfs of time in the whirlwind of demonic force. Her fright was beyond measure. There was a sense of abysmal suction as of unbreakable winds that bore her down through fleet unstable visions of past events. Teeth chattering, she slogged onto the edge of the room, as far as possible from the demon, dodging . Her livid fingers clutched at the doorframe in a death grip.

Along the gradual disappearance of Andras' particles, the phantasmal exorcists vanished one by one. The entire construction crumbled. The furniture crashed down with a storm of splinters and dust. The floor ruptured with earsplitting cracks. A snapping, thunderous roar blared, then a huge aperture opened in the ceiling. With clamorous rumbles, rubbles dropped all around the premise. The land itself reeled and rocked, shaking the foundations of the house.

'_Lietuva!'_ Poland's heart misgave her.

She flung herself into the corridor once more, trying each door in turn. They all opened and gave onto empty rooms. It was not until the second last door could all worriment be banished from her eyes: she found her best friend at last. Reposing unconsciously, Lithuania seemed to sustain no physical injury. Nevertheless, the floor below her body trembled and quaked. A portent crack split the floorboards apart even as Poland skittered to Lithuania's side.

"LIET, WAKE UP!" Poland yelled.

The floor was sundered, and Lithuania's body slipped into the newly-formed pit.

Lithuania opened her eyes with the greatest mystification in her life. Poland's hand was firmly clasping hers. The other nation had managed to snatch her in the nick of time, just before she fell fully into the lower story scattered with plaster chunks and broken wooden furniture to stake her.

"I got you, Liet," Poland said. Never in her life had she sounded so imploring. Never in her life had she seemed so afraid of loss. At that moment, it became lucid to Lithuania how much she meant to Poland.

Poland's other hand reached for Lithuania's arm and she hauled her friend. Only after Lithuania had stood next to her did panic recede from Poland's eyes. Without letting go of Lithuania's hand, she bolted downstairs. The corridor had returned to the size of a small house. Nor did the door distance itself from the two girls or occlude their egress.

Still oppressed by her ghastly mishap, Lithuania stayed silent with rigid passivity until Poland asked her outside the house ruins, "How are you holding on?"

"I'm doing just fine," she answered in a plaintive tone, her lips shivering and her eyes shying away as Poland caught her stare.

"Oh, Liet…" Poland hugged her best friend tightly. "I won't let anything horrible happen to you ever again."

Hand-in-hand, the two girls left behind the ghastly house with all the macabre to which they had been subjected. Simultaneously with their departure, the walls and floor of the house seemed to waver on every side and dissolve like a sullen smoke. With a sense of obfuscation, Poland and Lithuania discerned that the whole house had become as insubstantial as a lost shadow—a wandering echo of something long forgotten. Now that the demon had gone, the place's malefic illusions withered from sight. The two nations were standing in a forest glade, in the glorious light of the dawning sky, and all that remained of the dismal place was the bare transoms and trestles. The dissolution of the dusk promised a peaceful morning ahead and the paling saffron of sultry daybreak sifted upon them through the forest tops as they walked away.

###

The bubble bath permeated Poland's bathroom with the scent of vanilla and water-lilies. The yellow rubber duck lay neglected at one corner, next to the bath sponge. Poland smiled as Lithuania stepped into the tub to join her.

"Gee, you took off your accessories real quick today, Liet."

"Come on, it didn't take _that_ long just to remove a pair of earrings."

"What about your necklace?"

"I couldn't find it; must have dropped it while running away from the demon or in the forest."

"Tell you what," Poland remarked, "Let's go shopping tomorrow. I'm gonna buy you another necklace, a matching pair with mine."

"And we can drop by at a zoo or an aquarium after that—our first date as lovers." Lithuania beamed. "Dinner is my treat."

The tub was too narrow for two, but neither girl complained. They had decided to pick up what they had left off in the horrible room next to Zdzisława's. Now, as they sat face-to-face, Lithuania's hands traveled Poland's body downwards. Courtesy of the bubble bath's slickness, the tips of fingers glided unimpeded along her partner's bare skin.

A soft hum escaped from Poland's mouth when those fingers ghosted along her clavicles and evolved into a gasp when they circumnavigated her breasts. Then, beneath Lithuania's intoxicating caresses, she could no longer distinguish whether what she felt was burns, tingles, or pure numbness.

When Poland shifted closer and did the same to Lithuania, her best friend's head tilted back and her hips pushed up. Lithuania's hips rhythmically gyrated, adding more frictions between the two girls. With lust shimmering in their eyes, their breasts pressed against each other's and their thighs piled up together.

While her hands deftly cupped the fleshy mounds of Poland's backside, Lithuania kissed her lover's aureate hair. Tingles swept over Poland's scalp and her entire body tensed. The simple kiss ignited more heat between Poland's legs, its sensation shooting straight to her lower half like the pouring of gasoline into fire.

Poland allowed herself a moan before sinking her lips at Lithuania's, her hands roaming across the expanse of the brunette's back. Lithuania had always been radiant to look upon; yet, when she was writhing face-to-face with Poland's heated body like this, no humanly craft could have done more in the delineation of her sublime beauty.

Lithuania kissed her back in response, nibbling on Poland's upper lip lightly and caressing the sensitive skin with the tip of her tongue. As their lips brushed together more intimately still, their tongues darted out to meet each other in a dance of delirium. During that perfect minute, life was divine.

"All those centuries we wasted away … I still can't believe we didn't do this sooner," Poland husked after the completion of their kiss, her head lolling on the slope of Lithuania's neck as she felt her lover's hands sliding down the back of her thighs, urging her closer still even though there was no gap to separate their bodies. Their hearts thumped louder at the grinding of their rosy-tipped breasts. "We could say that stopover at the haunted house totally gives us, like, a benefit."

"I agree," Lithuania replied with a wide grin. Her formerly green eyes flashed yellow, their pupils forming narrow, vertical slits like the eyes of a snake.

THE END


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